


sponsorship by the case load

by spock



Category: Ouran High School Host Club - All Media Types
Genre: Clothing Kink, Established Relationship, M/M, Public Blow Jobs, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-13
Updated: 2014-08-13
Packaged: 2018-02-12 23:41:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2128827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spock/pseuds/spock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He gets more entertainment from the shifting weight of Hunni's body settled across his shoulders than he does glancing at the screen; Mori's never cared for football — or nationalism, for that matter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sponsorship by the case load

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SevlinRipley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SevlinRipley/gifts).



> for the prompt:  
> 
>
>>  
>> 
>> _Mori kissing Hunni's inner thigh when Hunni is sitting on his shoulders._  
> 

Mori's dropped down onto one knee before his brain has even processed what it is that he's doing, body tilted like a table with an off leg, listing to the side. Hunni uses Mori's thigh to boost himself up, sweeping his right leg in a wide arc over the breadth of Mori's shoulder, hooking his knee and gripping tightly at Mori's throat for a few seconds while he copies the movement with his left. 

Hunni's thighs settle snug against Mori's neck, the already too-small shorts of the team Japan kit he's wearing riding up even higher now that he's seated. The soft skin of Hunni's thighs mold themselves into the hollows of Mori's cheeks, press right against his ears, muting the sounds around him.

A cheer roars out from the big screen that's showing the match, echoed milliseconds later by the crowd surrounding them, loud even through the fabric of Hunni's shorts, the muscle and skin of his thighs. Hunni raises his arms up to cheer with their countrymen and Mori quickly darts into motion, grips tightly at Hunni's shins. He gets more entertainment from the shifting weight of Hunni's body settled across his shoulders than he does glancing at the screen; Mori's never cared for football — or nationalism, for that matter.

Suddenly the big screen cuts out, it's brightness blinking a few times, resilient in its final new seconds of life before succumbing to the inevitable. The crowd groans, Hunni's voice joining in, loud and rough, a war cry. Just as suddenly, the noise of the match starts up again from behind them, a backup screen picking up the slack, and the crowd shifts to glue their eyes onto their newly discovered savior. 

Hunni doesn't wait for Mori to carve out enough space to turn, takes it upon himself to treat Mori's shoulders like a pommel horse, twisting so that he's got the working screen in his line of vision. 

Mori's sight has been reduced to the blue of Hunni's jersey, and the faint milky-whiteness of his skin, barely visible through the fabric thanks due Mori's intimate proximity with it. 

The team does something admirable again, inciting cheers. With no legs to grab hold of Mori presses his hands to Hunni's back, holding Hunni steady until he settles down again; Mori rests his hands on Hunni's hips, ready and waiting for the next time they'll have to spring into action.

There's even less for Mori to focus on now, and he sighs, resigned, tells himself to be glad that there's no extra time in the group stage — even better, there's no endless rounds of penalty kicks. He sighs again, this time out of relief, and Hunni shivers, his body hunching down over Mori's head for a few seconds before he rises to sit tall again.

Mori pauses, considering, before turning his head slightly, opens his mouth and sucks a patch of Mori's skin, running his tongue over the fine, near-invisible hairs, pressing light kisses to Hunni's thigh. Hunni tenses, grips at Mori's hair with one hand and grabs his shoulder with the other, his tiny little fingernails digging into Mori's back through the matching kit Hunni forced him into before they left the house.

"Mitsukuni?" Mori asks, voice low, soft, seeking permission. His lips catch on Hunni's skin. Hunni tightens his hold on Mori's hair, grips shoulder just that much harder; an answer in and of itself.

Mori starts licking in earnest, his breathing picking up. The air supply he's been granted within the cradle of Hunni's thighs turns muggy, humid, makes everything feel more intense. The noise of the game, people around them — all of it blocked out and dull, a faraway thing that might as well not exist at all, distractions irradiated thanks to Hunni's thighs clamped tight 'round his ears. 

He changes tactics at a bit, starts worrying the skin, nipping it harshly, tugging on it, leaving little bites that will at first turn bright red — irritated and stinging — and then settle into the dark, mottled purple of ownership. Once he's happy with what he's achieved he turns and repeats the process on Hunni's other thigh, blind to his craftsmanship but doing his best within his minds eye to recreate the patterns he laid out, wanting the rorschach blots he's creating to be perfect carbon copies of Mori's dedication. 

Hunni finally has enough and yanks at Mori's hair so aggressively that it brings tears to his eyes, the pain bringing a halt to his single-mindedness, his selfishness. He faces forward again and presses his mouth tight to Hunni's crotch, mouths at his erection through the mesh fabric of his shorts. Licking at them, getting them wet with his spit — Mori sucks at random, hoping for a taste of Hunni's precome. He wracks his brain, trying to recall if Hunni put on underwear that morning. He can't remember. 

It doesn't take much more for Hunni's body to seize up, tensing. Mori slips his hands up onto Hunni's back, fully supporting his weight when Hunni goes slack at the force of his orgasm, boneless for a few moments before he comes back to himself, shakily sits straight again. 

Mori's hard — could probably come from a decent gust of wind brushing just right over his dick — but he isn't overly worried about it, knows that the people around them won't be able to tell. His jersey isn't tucked into his shorts, for one thing, and Hunni had given him a jock to wear — double- and triple-checked before the left the house to make sure that Mori was not only wearing it, but that he'd been wearing it _properly_. Mori knows better than ask Hunni if they could leave early, knows better than to beg for a few moments to himself so that he might find relief in a bathroom stall or uninhabited alley; ' _Mitsukuni probably planned all of this,_ ' Mori thinks. Everything, all the way to him standing there, aching. Mori certainly wouldn't put it past him. 

Mori reaches down, blindly — and _subtly_ , he hopes — adjusts his erection so that the head of his cock is trapped against the elastic of both his shorts and jock, held in place for now, until Hunni decides to do something with it, and wonders to himself how Hunni might've gotten that first screen to cut out and die.


End file.
